


Under Fire

by Morgan



Series: Grace Under Fire [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan





	Under Fire

They’re headed into the parking lot of a crap motel in a small town not far from where Elvis was born. Dean has had quite enough of the radio already despite the fact that he knows Elvis was occasionally awesome. Not the warbling fat and sequence wearing Vegas version but the lean hard hungry guy in the leather jacket… never mind.

They’ve got feds and police on their tail, have had for some time now, and never mind anything else that might be hunting their asses, like a passel of the hunter community, a miscellany of demons and bad guys and one very, very misguided Bible thumping pal of Gordon’s. Fuck.

Dean loves his car, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally need some sleep in an actual bed. So - motel.

It’s ugly. It’s passing itself off as a mom and pop operated family oriented place, but he’d be very, very interested to see what kind of family would check in to this set up. Him and Sam do, but they are not exactly the poster boys for family values these days. Sam pays cash for the room with a handful of crumpled bills that have blood stains in one corner from the last hunt. The guy checking them in doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. It’s that kind of joint.

They crash through a door that makes a funny squeal, rusty hinges protesting.

Sam is mad. No, scratch that. Sam is righteously pissed at Dean and he lets him know it too. He’s been bitching nonstop since early afternoon. Petty sniping and an out and out dressing down, enumerating for Dean all the ways in which he is an ass. Dean deserves it. He got them pulled over for speeding and fuck, that had been a close call. Cop got distracted. Dean heard the 10-71 over the radio and that was enough to get them out of there. Good lord, that had been close.

Sam still has that dark cloud hanging over him, though, the blunt fear of getting thrown in lock up, no way out, no locks to pick, no window to escape through and Sam hates that more than Dean does. Hates it with a fiery passion that translates into him snapping at Dean about anything and everything for hours on end.

Dean kind of wants to fuck the bitch right out of him.

Sam takes one long skeptical look at the room and then turns to let Dean have it about what a shit hole he’s landed them in this time and Dean figures… fuck it. So he grabs Sam and throws him up against the wall and goes toe to toe with the lanky motherfucker and bites a inelegant kiss into his lips to shut him the hell up. Jesus Christ, he’s had enough for one day.

Sam doesn’t like it, there are hands at Dean’s shoulders, bracing to push him off, so Dean breaks his elbows, both wrists to Sam’s joints, pushing out and Sam huffs out a hard breath when Dean leans all of his weight on him and traps him there. He gets a thigh in between Sam’s legs, snug up against Sam’s crotch and rocks into him, shifting his grip to Sam’s hips to get him to slide down, fit them snug.

Sam still doesn’t like it. He bites at Dean’s mouth, takes Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and makes his presence known, draws blood. Goddamn it. That actually hurts. Dean tilts his head back, finds Sam’s eyes and shit, he’s still angry, but there’s a whole mess of dark heat and intent there too.

-One of these days you’re gonna… Sam starts.

But Dean cuts him off, all his weight crushing the air out of Sam and kisses him good and hard enough that they both end up dizzy. Sam holds off for a second, but soon enough his hands come to Dean’s ass and knead rhythmically while their mouths slide together.

Dean goes a little nuts for a moment there. He’s wired and grouchy and needs a shower and a few hours of real sleep, but for right now, the moaning breaths he can get out of Sam with his hands and his mouth are so much better. He gets a hand in Sam’s hair, nice and deep and forces his head down, takes his mouth. When he lets up Sam looks strained and flushed.

-Fuck, Dean, Sam grinds out, straining forward to get at Dean’s mouth again.  
-Yeah, Dean gives back with hardly any breath.

They’re kissing hard enough to hurt. It’s just right for now, the desperation and need building between them and it’s all the miles under the tires and all the bad shit that’s been going on getting blotted out under the pressure of this, here, now. Dean gets his free hand in under Sam’s seventeen thousand layers and skims across his stomach and he likes the way the muscle there jumps.

Sam holds on, holds on like they’re teenagers and desperate enough to dry hump fully dressed until they both break down. Not the best way to do this, Dean wants more, but the tight grip of Sam’s hands on his ass is beautiful and the way Sam growls under his breath, bit back so Dean knows he doesn’t want to make that sound, but Dean is forcing it out of him against his will. Beautiful noise, solid little hails of want. Dean pulls back, gets his hands on Sam’s belt.

Sam resists at first trying to get him back closer, trying to tug him in, but he gives that up when he clocks on to what Dean is trying to do. Sam pushes his shoulders back to the wall and angles his hips out and he’s so fucking hot like that, presenting himself, pressing his big palms flat to the wall.

-Gonna make it up to me, Dean? Sam asks and Holy Hell that goes straight to Dean’s cock like a jolt of electricity.

Sam’s can drop his voice down and make anything dirty and Dean doesn’t want to think about what that says about him, but when Sam does, when he gets into that register, Dean is pretty much willing to do fucking anything. The sharp glint of Sam’s teeth showing in a harsh kind of smile says Sam knows too much already.

-Fucking cops and bloodhounds and demons and, Jesus Christ, Sam, how the hell…  
-Shut up and suck me, Sam says.

And, yeah, that’s a good plan. Dean gives him one second of solid eye contact and then drops like his knees were only meant to fold one way. Fuck. Sam’s looking down on him, Dean knows. Sam looking down from that impossible height, miles and miles of him, all muscle and tightly drawn skin, Sam trained and honed and so fucking perfect for this job and when it comes right down to it that’s what gets Dean so worked up. Sam is perfect for this. Perfect.

He focuses on what’s right in front on him. Long, tall Sammy and he’s already hard in his jeans, so Dean mouths the solid heat through the fabric, fills his nostrils with the smell of Sam in jeans he’s worn for weeks and it shouldn’t get him off as bad as it does. The hand on the back of his head isn’t helping. Sam’s strong fingers cupping around the back of his neck, fitting so right.

Sam widens his stance and Dean eels right in between his legs, fits himself close, starts working on Sam’s belt, ‘cause good goddamn, and it takes too long and no time at all, and in the meanwhile Sam gives him two fingers to suck on so Dean does. Fucking Sammy, Boy Wonder, smart Sammy has him so figured out it’s not even funny if it wasn’t hot as a supernova. Jesus.

Gets his belt undone, and buttons and drags them down, yeah, there we go, and Sam, Sammy, fuck. Been days since either of them had a real shower. Sam smells stronger for it, but good, so good. Dean would deny it, sure, but he likes this more than he should. He likes the fact that Sam isn’t careful with him, likes the fact that he’s still got two of Sam’s fingers in his mouth as he works, slicking them over with spit, likes the way that makes his mouth water, likes that Sam smells like sweat, that he’s going to taste more, be more Sammy than he has been for days.

There’s been no time for this, no time for anything, and really? Dean needs it. Needs Sam’s hand cupping his skull. Needs Sam’s fingers in his mouth. Needs the leg Sam shuffles forwards for him to rock against. Needs. Just. Yeah.

Sam slowly pulls his fingers out of Dean’s mouth and settles them, wet with spit, on Dean’s jaw and makes him tilt his head all the way back, baby bird, neck stretched long and what Dean sees in his brother’s eyes is elemental, focused and so fucking hot. It’s all “good boy” and “like that” and “suck me” even if he never says the words and it makes Dean quake somewhere deep down in his caffeine jittery stomach.

The other thing those dark lovely eyes say is “you’re not in control here” and Dean really isn’t. He knows. If it wasn’t Sam Dean would have been out the door a long time ago, but he loves his brother, loves with a solid thumping vast overwhelming thoroughness that gets that shaking adrenaline rush to spill into desire.

Wired. So strung taut and so fucking wired, but still careful as he pulls Sam out, careful, tucking his boxers down, no spring left to the elastic and that only makes this easier. Sam, rock hard and needing and this, this is something for both of them, so Dean closes his lips over the wet head of Sam’s cock. The taste of him explodes over Dean’s tongue and he moans with it. A low sound, dark and syrupy.

Sam doesn’t go easy on him. It takes him seconds to take over, both hands on Dean’s head now, fingers splayed along his throat and neck, thumbs at Dean’s jawbone and the slow rolling thrusts of his hips making Dean lose a little more of his mind with every pass of Sam’s cock over his tongue. It’s going to get harder and faster and deeper and better, but it starts like a tease because Sam is in control now and that’s how he likes it. That’s for both of them too.

Dean has one hand pressed flat to Sam’s thigh now and he’s reaching to cup Sam’s balls with the other. Soft rolling pressure, all his own need shoved aside, wanting to make this good and rising up a little higher on his knees, the strain in his own muscles only making it better, making it more real and every time Sam draws back it’s like he’s losing something, but every time Sam pushes forward, going a little deeper, Dean is right again, his own hips hitching helplessly.

Sweat on his face and spit on his chin already and Sam. Sammy, Sam. Jesus. Sam is there, dark eyes, smart Sammy eyes, sharp shooter focus on Dean’s face, measuring how much he can take. Dean makes a noise. He hears it himself, that tiny mewling needy noise and Sam’s hips stutter forward a little too fast, cock bumping the back of Dean’s throat and he almost chokes, almost, just the surprise, he’s better at this than that. And so he swallows before Sam has a chance to back off.

Weird fluttering feeling in his throat and heart trip hammering in his chest, wants to be good, wants to be so good and Sam… Sam strokes his fingers down Dean’s face, tracing Dean’s distended lips, wordless praise and Dean closes his eyes under it, because this is all he can think of for long hours in the car sometimes and all the time before when Sam was sniping Dean kept thinking he could do this, could make it good, could make it all right.

He’s never going to let them get caught. He’ll talk them out of trouble, ride them out of town, run down the fucking sheriff if he has to, because Sam hates being locked up more than he hates dark tunnels or the sight of his own blood and Sam. Is. Everything.

More true right now when he’s got his cock in Dean’s mouth.

Bumps and ridges and veins all as familiar as the whorls of Dean’s own fingerprints. Sam’s taste good and deep in him, small short breaths through his nose is all he can get and that is rich with Sam too, all the air is scented with his brother, blood thick and riding his mouth easy now.

Sam has that steady grip on his head, fingers crooking in just a little, sharp points to the bone in his skull and Dean fucking loves it. Sam makes him hold off, lets just the tip of the head rest in Dean’s lips and paints him with slick and goddamn Dean is about to lose it. Dean’s own cock jerks wildly and he has nowhere to go, caught and held like this and he can feel the muscles in his ass tense and release, wanting to thrust. He is Sam’s. Completely.

Sam isn't nearly as desperate when it comes right down to it, but Dean can get him there. Humming pleasure, the zing of it in his own blood and he works his tongue, uses his fingers, pressing solid against that spot behind Sam's balls and he's still careful, he's still gentle, he's still taking care.

Sam swears at him. Sam says something else too, something about how good Dean is, in amidst the flat pressure of his fingers and it torques the pure strain of need higher, so now Dean's hands, that are gunslinger steady always, start to tremble and he rides with it, rides with the intensity of the pleasure because they'll get there.

Sam will get them there.

Dean risks a glance up and he meets those hot hard half lidded eyes, focused on him, watching what Dean is doing to him and it breaks Dean open how much he needs it, the approval, the reverberating need, the answering call in Sam. So easy to do something so wrong and Dean is never like this for anyone, never for anyone else, just Sam.

He pulls off, almost pulls back, reverent kisses at the long slick column of Sam's twitching flesh and Sam eases the hold at his neck just enough that he can look up for real, their gazes locking with a crack like lightning.

-Hard, Dean says. "Good and hard, Sammy".

Sam's hips flutter again and Dean eases circles with his thumbs just where the tendon in Sam’s thigh makes a hollow in the soft silk skin. Dean has seen Sam possessed and his eyes were almost this dark, almost, but this is better. This is the slick dark sheen of the Impala in night rain. The intent behind it makes it so good Dean's mouth is watering already and he's going to come in his jeans without a hand on him.

-Open for me, Sam says and he's trembling too, just a buzz under his skin, goose bumps along the strip of skin Dean can see on his stomach and he wants to lick them off.

Dean opens. He breathes hard while he can, deep sea diving and the salt of Sam's skin, the taste of his slick, Dean wants it, he wants it so good and so hard he can't get air, he wants Sam in him to the hilt, all the way down his throat. He wants to hear himself groan Sam's name in that fucked out croak only this can cause.

Sam's fingers stroke lovingly, tender slow caresses over his cheek and then he gives Dean two fingers again, slips them past Dean's throbbing lips, presses his tongue down and Dean opens for him as much as he can, shows him how much he wants it, how much he has to give. Sam. Sammy. All for Sam.

Sam's smile, when it finally breaks is slow and heated and kind of dangerous if for no other reason than the focus of it. He wants this now, wants it in ways that makes Dean shivery with anticipation. He presses his tongue into Sam's fingers, folds it around. The word that comes to mind is undulates. And if Dean can still fucking think that he needs Sam to make him stop fucking thinking.

The noise Sam makes when he does that thing with his tongue, folds and twists it, tells him he's about to get everything he wishes. He does it again. Sam makes a long drawn out sighing growl, a deeply needy noise with everything in it that he can promise.

He lets Dean see, lets him see it in his eyes and if he doesn't get to it Dean is going to climb those ridiculous miles of skin with biting kisses and then bring Sam to him some other way. He just... and then Sam is there. Sam's hand on the back of his neck not a promise anymore, not a flirting invitation, but a goddamned imperative and yes, they're there. Yes.

Sam rides him so hard he forgets his own name. Chokes off his breathing and makes tears leak out of his eyes and Dean loves it. Loves every hard won second, every rough rasping breath out of Sam, every slow slurred word of praise, every punched out curse. He’s hard, so hard the press of his jeans hurts and he can’t stand it, but he loves it.

Jaw aching and lips rubbed raw. Lost to this.

Sam gives it to him good and hard, so hard Dean sees a shimmer of spots behind closed lids from oxygen deprivation and he feels the press of all of Sam wedged down his throat, Sam's fingers tracing the outline of himself in Dean and never keeping him there for long, and when he draws back, draws back so Dean can breathe, Dean's not sure he wants to.

This is what Sam can do to him. When Sam gets close he loses his words, and it's that, more sweat and muscle tension and the sweet press of his fingers turning suddenly slacker, not harder like you'd think, because Sam is... nothing if not a complicated guy and he's in Dean's space now, in Dean's head and mouth and heart and Dean. Fucking. Loves. It.

On his knees for his baby brother, his own heat denied, and he loves it. Wants every fucking second of it, all he can get. Because he doesn't have to be in control. He can moan like a hooker and let Sam, just let him, because Sam is. So. Good. At. This.

Dean knows the hitching in Sam's breath. Knows the shifts, the tremble and tense knotting and he's close, so close, when he pulls back, just enough that he shoots on Dean's tongue and Dean holds it there, holds on to Sam's hips with both hands now, not to keep him there, he's not going anywhere. Dean holds on to hold himself up.

He's got his eyes closed tight, his mouth full of Sam's come and his nostrils heavy with his brother's sweat and he's surrounded, gripped solid on each side by Sam's legs, braced and keeping himself up by will alone. Sam is leaning back heavily against the wall, but he's not slumping down, he's not done yet and Dean is on the razor’s edge, so close to coming from just this. Fuck.

The tears leaking out of Dean's eyes are involuntary, it's not really emotion, it's the intensity of how hard Sam will use him given permission and Dean can take it, wants it, fucking asks for it.

Long, slender fingers under his chin, and Dean a taut string, being played over so lovingly, so completely. He lifts his head instead of spitting and he can almost feel Sam's pulse in the fingertips that stroke down his face and then glide along his throat in a plea.

Sam caresses along his throat.

-For me, Dean, he says and his voice is scraped raw, scratchy.

Dean can't say "anything". But he can swallow. So he does.

And bends his head. And rests his forehead on Sam's thigh, strong muscle there taking the weight of him. And comes in his shorts.

Jesus.

Sam's hands stroking along his neck, his shoulders, soothing praise and then soft words along the lines of "get up, man, come on" and they're on the bed, Sam over him, licking in to his mouth, kissing like they haven't for months. Sam, who should be a trembling wreck, is sharp with energy and still there's this thrum in his skin like he's not done yet, like he could do this all night and maybe, maybe that's just better than sleep if Dean could just get more air into his lungs.

Loves this, loves this, loves Sam over him like this, all that muscle, all that heart and mind, all that focus on Dean, stroking and caressing and kissing like he's going for broke.

A thousand miles under the tires and everyone gunning for them, clowns to the left of them jokers to the right and Sam is there with him now, is with him every inch of the way and they can do anything, they can beat the dragon and go anywhere as long as this, this shining moment, is there for them too. One hand in Sam's hair, one on his ass, one leg slung over Sam's calf and he's pressed flat into the fugly slippery bedspread in sticky jeans and he never wants to stop. Kissing. Sam.

Sam smiles against his mouth.

Sam's hands roving.

Sam's heartbeat slowing, slowing and then just the two of them in the perfect slide of wet lips and the taste of them two together and Dean can breathe.

Finally.

 

END


End file.
